Volatile
by Lomonaaeren
Summary: Epilogue fic for 'Practicing Liars.' HPDM slash, AU where Harry is Snape's son. Volatile, adj.: Harry and Snape's relationship without Voldemort to focus on. Threeshot. COMPLETE.
1. Problems Arising

**Title: **Volatile (1/2)

**Disclaimer: **J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.

**Pairings: **Harry/Draco

**Rating: **PG-13

**Warnings:** AU where Harry is Snape's son, established relationship, profanity, angst.

**Summary: **Volatile, _adj._:Harry and Snape's parent-child relationship when they don't have Voldemort to concentrate on.

**Author's Notes: **This is an epilogue in two parts to my AU story _Practicing Liars_, in which Harry discovered that he was Snape's son. It would help a lot to have read that first. This is one of a couple fics requested by a reviewer, jtsbbsps_dk; I'll post the second one eventually. I hope everyone enjoys this brief return to the _Liars _universe.

**Volatile**

_Chapter One—Problems Arise_

"Did he say what he wanted?" Draco let his hand brush the hair out of Harry's eyes, then drift down his face. Harry smiled, keeping his eyes closed. Draco choked back the temptation to say a few of the things he wanted to. It would probably inspire Harry to lean forwards and kiss them, and as nice as that was, he didn't want Harry to be late for a meeting with his father.

"No." Harry opened his eyes, a faint frown forming between his brows. "He's been—strange lately. Glaring at people. Snapping at them. Saying things that make no sense."

"That's not strange," Draco pointed out. He leaned his head on Harry's shoulder. They were wrapped together in a nest of blankets in one of the further parts of the dungeons, whether overly inquisitive fans and outraged Slytherins alike would have trouble finding them. And they still had a few minutes before Harry absolutely _had _to leave to be on time to his meeting with Professor Snape. "With the idiots he has for students, he can explain the most basic Defense spell in words of one syllable, and he'll still get blank looks."

"Glaring at _me_," Harry said. "Snapping at _me_."

Draco raised his eyebrows. "That's more unusual," he said. Professor Snape's relationship with Harry still wasn't perfect and probably never would be; that was what happened when your father only discovered your existence at sixteen years old, Draco thought wisely. But the professor had been as careful as he could to keep the relationship going while still allowing Harry to maintain some freedom and distance.

Anyway, the Dark Lord was dead, a fact that still made Draco shiver with delight when he thought about it. Harry didn't need to worry as much about his safety as he once had.

Harry sighed and started to drag himself away. "I have to go," he said, when Draco muttered a protest. "He said that he'd flay the skin off my back if I wasn't there on time."

"He says things like that without meaning them, though," Draco said, keeping hold of Harry's arm. He knew he was being childish. He didn't care. He never got as much time with his boyfriend as he wanted, and now his boyfriend had a gloomy expression on his face that made Draco want him to stay close. Harry had suffered enough sadness in his life. Why did he have to go through more?

"I know," Harry said. "But this time he didn't have that—that shine in his eyes that told me he was joking, you know? It was more as if we'd gone back to the way things used to be."

Draco released Harry's arm at that, but it was the tone in Harry's voice that did it, not the news of the professor's threat. Harry sounded a bit wistful. The time when he had considered Professor Snape his enemy and not really his father had been simpler for him, Draco knew, but he still didn't want Harry longing for it.

"Go if you need to, then," he said. "I'm going to stay here and sleep."

Harry grinned and bent to kiss him. "I'd much rather stay here," he whispered. "I'm only leaving because I have to."

That eased Draco's loneliness as he watched Harry walk away, if not all his fears.

* * *

"Enter."

Harry slid cautiously into his father's office. The response to his knock had been colder than usual. To some people, that wouldn't have meant much, since they probably thought Snape could never be cheerful about anything but assigning detentions.

Harry knew better, though, and he was frantically trying to review his behavior in his head. What had he _done_? He'd been on time to all his classes, he'd been doing his homework, he'd been staying inside the strong wards at Hogwarts that would protect him from both the press and the rogue Death Eaters still present, and he hadn't broken any school rules more severe than those against running in the corridors. If he had done something specific, he would have expected Snape to give him a clue already, rather than a vague summons.

Snape sat in a tall red chair that faced the shelves of cauldrons, rather than behind his desk, marking papers. Harry swallowed, his anxiety level rising. When adults did something that changed the normal routine of things, he almost always suffered as a result.

But this was Snape, his father, he reminded himself, and even if their relationship was new, it still wasn't like any other he'd had in his life. So Harry just stood in front of Snape with his hands locked together behind his back and waited for him to get to the point.

Snape's eyes were cold and neutral in that unnerving way that meant Harry couldn't tell anything about what was going to happen next. He did some more staring, and finally Snape grunted and glanced away, as though Harry had scored a point of some sort.

"We have many things to discuss," Snape said. "Things I have been putting off in hopes that you would eventually grow more comfortable. Then I realized that they would become more _un_comfortable the longer we waited to speak of them." He gestured with his wand, and a smaller chair trotted over to settle in front of him. "Sit down."

Harry did, but he was feeling even more anxious now, fear traveling through him like a cold wind. Was Snape going to put even more restrictions on him? He sometimes seemed to feel that, because he hadn't known Harry when he was a baby, he should make up for that with a lot more demands _now_.

"I have two questions," Snape said, and then smiled faintly. The smile reassured Harry enough to make him lean back in the chair. "Many more than that, in truth, but two to begin. Where did you learn the _Sectumsempra _spell that you used to kill Bellatrix Lestrange?"

Harry waited, but Snape said nothing else. "You said two," Harry pointed out.

"That is the one I wish to begin with," Snape said.

Harry sighed and stared at his hands. Compared to everything else he'd come to terms with in the past few months, maybe this was small, but he still didn't much like it. He just didn't like telling secrets to adults, period, he thought. They always wanted to do something with them, instead of keeping them, the way his friends did. "I found a Potions book," he said. "I didn't think I was going to be admitted into Potions—for understandable reasons—and so I didn't buy the book I needed. Slughorn gave me one instead, and it had spells written in the margins, and notes on how to do the Potions better."

"Ah," Snape said, as if releasing a breath he'd had contained in his lungs for hours. Harry looked up, startled, and then looked down again when he realized that he couldn't read the expression on his father's face. "So. Was this book marked as belonging to the Half-Blood Prince?"

"Yes!" Harry said, staring. "How did you know that, sir? Did you have the same book when you were in school?"

"My mother's name was Prince," Snape said, and then was silent, watching Harry intently. This must be one of the little tests that Snape liked to do, where he waited for Harry to come up with the answer on his own. He said that Harry didn't use his brain enough and needed to exercise it more.

Luckily, this one wasn't hard. Harry choked. "_Your _book? _You _came up with the spells? Er, found the spells?" He had never been sure how many of the spells were ones that the Prince—Snape—had invented and how many were just obscure ones that he'd researched.

"Yes." Snape waited again, apparently seeking a reaction this time.

"Wow," Harry said. It seemed to be the only thing he could say, because he still didn't know why Snape had started this conversation in the first place. Why did it matter what spell he'd used to kill Bellatrix? It mattered that she was dead. And Harry was not going to regret that death, not when she'd killed Sirius and tortured Draco's mum.

"Why did you use the spell without knowing what it did first?" Snape asked. Then he paused and tilted his head like an owl considering prey. "Unless you _did _know and decided that it would make her end appropriate."

Harry shook his head, amused despite himself. There were times that Snape seemed to think he never used his brain, and others when he seemed to think that Harry was secretly looking up Latin roots all night and thinking about Potions ingredients. "No. I chose it because the spell said it was for enemies, and she was my enemy if anyone ever was." He thought of Voldemort, too, of course, but he'd had to feel love and use Dumbledore's extra power, a gift when the Headmaster was dying, to defeat Voldemort. When he'd killed Bellatrix, he'd felt nothing but hatred, and then satisfaction.

"Do you not think," Snape said, voice deeper in the way that meant he was playing the disapproving parent, "that it was rather foolish to use a spell when you didn't know what it did?"

"I knew it would hurt her," Harry said. "And that was all I wanted."

Snape actually leaned back in his seat a little. Then he murmured, "Nevertheless, you will not do such a thing again. And I will want the book back."

Harry bristled. This was more demanding than Snape had been in a long time, except when he was trying to be a deliberate bastard. "Why not?" he demanded. "What happens if I need to use a spell that I don't really understand to protect myself against a Death Eater? It _could _happen. I think you're forgetting that I have a dangerous life, and I don't want to cower behind wards for the rest of it, so it'll always be dangerous. And—"

"Using a spell that you don't understand could harm others as well as yourself," Snape said, and _great_, he was making his voice all slow, as if Harry really did have that lesser level of intelligence, or at least didn't understand English. "I do not want you harmed. I will go through a great deal of trouble to ensure that you are not."

"If I cast the spell on someone who's trying to harm me, it doesn't matter _what _it does," Harry said. "It's not as though I'm going to stand in front of the mirror aiming my wand at myself, or do it at friends just for fun."

"And if the spell hits a shield and comes back at you faster than you are prepared to deal with it?" Snape's eyes were very cold. "If it affects stone or wood or glass unnaturally and makes defenses you may have prepared useless? If it has a wider area of effect than you think it does—and how could you estimate such things, if the spell was truly unfamiliar?—and strikes and injures innocents? If—"

"All _right_," Harry said, hating the fact that he sounded like a sulky child, but knowing Snape was right, and hating that, too. "But I need the book to continue doing well in Potions."

"You do not," Snape said. "I will be more than willing to tutor you."

Harry stared at him for a while, and when he appeared to take no notice of this, Harry explained, gently, "We tried that experiment for five years. I don't think it's going to work."

"You cannot be bereft of Potions talent." Snape found his fingers fascinating, and Harry suspected that the stains on them probably _did _make up their own sort of map, but he needed him to pay attention to the conversation right now. "You're my son."

"Inheritance doesn't work that way." Harry rose to his feet. "Look, I'll promise not to use another spell that I don't know. And at least now you know where the book is. But I _need _that book. If I'm going to be an Auror, I have to pass my Potions NEWT, and that's my only chance."

Snape rose to his feet as well, too quickly. Harry frowned in confusion. That speed usually showed only when Snape was upset, but what would he have to be upset about? Harry was the one who had been dragged here and shown that he was wrong.

"It is not," Snape said, and he wasn't speaking through gritted teeth, but it sounded close. "I told you, I will tutor you. I will do everything I can. If you want to be an Auror, then I will help you become so. And if you decide on another career—which you _may_, as we have talked about several times—then I will help you with that, as well. But the book involves a level of knowledge and wisdom that you are not ready for. It constitutes cheating."

Harry thought back on the favoritism that Snape had shown Slytherins over the years. He couldn't have repressed the enormous snort that emerged from his nose if he tried.

Snape stiffened and stared at him. Harry stared back. He didn't know what else Snape wanted him to say. Harry had simply spoken the truth as he saw it, after all. He had tried working with Snape on Potions, and it didn't work. And him having the book didn't hurt anything. It wasn't like Snape had been looking for it and wanted it back. He would have a little extra knowledge, and he would _learn _something, and then he would take the NEWTs and become an Auror.

Perhaps he was being a little bit unreasonable. But Snape was being more so, and he was the adult, as he kept telling Harry when he made arbitrary rules, so Harry settled for another glare.

* * *

This was not at all the way Severus had wanted the conversation to go. He had thought of it as a subtle exploration of morality, of the way that he would have to ensure his son felt badly for his deed while at the same time not feeling too badly, because Bellatrix was no great loss to the world. But Harry needed a conscience more than Severus did. He had been raised in a different fashion, educated in a different House. Severus wanted him to retain the best of that upbringing while shedding the things from it that would hinder him.

And somehow the conversation had skewed in a different direction entirely, and Harry refused to hand over the book in the calm, mature fashion that Severus had envisioned. Instead, he acted like a moody—

_Adolescent._

Sometimes it was hard to imagine that the boy who was sneering at him now, his face looking more like Severus's than it usually did, was the same one who had been willing to die to rid the world of the Dark Lord.

But he would not speak as harshly as he would have liked. If Harry refused to obey a rule, Severus had discovered, trying to enforce it anyway would only result in a clash that ended in detention. He would be reasonable. He held Harry's eyes and asked, "How much of your refusal to surrender the book comes from your need of weapons?"

He had successfully distracted the boy, at least. Harry frowned and shook his head. "What do you mean? My wand is the only weapon I need."

Severus sighed. He wished, again, that he had approached this under different circumstances, but he had not called Harry to this meeting simply to discuss his killing of Bellatrix and the obvious possession of Severus's invented spells. "I meant that you have an ingrained distrust of adults," he said. "Even of other children, in some instances. That is not blameworthy," he added quickly, because Harry's face was turning red. "But I do want you to think about how you treat knowledge and information as weapons that you must hoard for later in your life. You do not know that you would fail Potions with me if we should try again, with good will on both sides. You do not know that you want to become an Auror. But on the chance that you do, you want this book."

"I really don't know where you're going with this."

Severus hesitated. He had never been trained in the ways of Mind-Healing, and he sometimes thought any native empathy he possessed had died with Lily. But he had been trying in the past few months with Harry, and especially in the month since the final battle with the Dark Lord, and he was going to try again now.

"I meant that I wished you to consider whether the way you have been raised influences your decisions," he said carefully. "The distrustful environment, the need for constant self-defense, perhaps governs your reactions now."

Harry's head snapped up, with a motion that made Severus's neck ache in sympathy. His eyes were dark and glittering, and Severus saw Lily in him more strongly than ever. Unfortunately, it was the Lily who had declared that he either gave up the friends that he was following into the Dark Lord's embrace or he gave her up.

It did not help that she had been right.

"We're not discussing this," Harry said.

"Your upbringing?" Severus felt his own anger begin to rise in response. He had been patient, but Harry's flat refusals were not the rational conversations he had pictured. He had thought the best thing about having a son who had already reached the age of sixteen would be his understanding of reason. But Harry banished reason from the room on a regular basis. "We are."

"We're not." Harry clasped his hands behind his back. "It wasn't the best, but there's no point in talking about it now. You already know it wasn't the best. You haven't tried to talk to me about it so far."

"I have waited," Severus said, and strove for the quiet tone he needed, given the subject. "I know a few details, enough to make me angry. I wish to know more. How often did your relatives withhold food from you? How exactly did they mistreat you? Why did no one ever _notice _this mistreatment?"

"No," Harry said. "I don't want to tell you that."

"Why not?" Severus took a step forwards, and then stopped himself. Harry didn't flinch or react wildly the way he had when he was still hiding the secret of their relationship—which he had known first—but his face had shut down, and he moved a step nearer the door in response.

"Because I don't."

Severus shut his eyes. He was trying to remember that this was sensitive for Harry, but denying that abuse existed—no, Harry was not even doing that, which Severus could remember doing as a prop to his own pride during childhood. He was simply shutting his mouth, like a child who didn't want to eat his vegetables.

_He is a child, _Severus thought, opening his eyes. _My child. I have a right to know what happened to him, and I never will learn it from him if he has his way. He would have approached me by now if he felt comfortable talking about it._

The temptation to use Legilimency was there, like a knife under his hand. But at least he had enough sense to avoid crossing that boundary. That was the action he knew Harry would never forgive him.

"You need not speak of this right now," he said. "Choose a time and place and we will speak of it there. I will arrange for a qualified Mind-Healer to be in attendance, or Madam Pomfrey, if you prefer that. Or you may write it down. It need not be a long document. If written words would give you the necessary distance—"

"Don't you _understand_?" Harry said, with a viciousness that surprised Severus almost more than it displeased him. "I don't _want _to talk about it. I know it's not right. I know I didn't deserve it. I'm angry at them. But you already know everything important about it, the lack of food and the cupboard and everything. Why do you want to _know _more than that? It's fine. I'm fine. And I think that you just don't want me to use the book because you want to teach me in Potions yourself instead. I told you, that doesn't work."

"I do not want you to use the book because you have proven that you do not have the foresight and maturity necessary to do so," Severus said sharply. "I want you to talk about the abuse because it had unintended consequences that follow you through life, whether or not you recognize them. And I wish to know more because I shall always wish to know more about you. Because I did not raise you, I wish to at least understand those years of your life."

"They were bad," Harry said. He slid a step closer to the door. "The Dursleys abused me. I didn't know I had magic, or who my parents—my mum and James really were, or how they died. Then I came to Hogwarts, and everything was better, even with Voldemort after me. The end."

"I want more than that," said Severus.

"Sometimes we don't get everything we want." Harry smiled mockingly at him, that smile he seemed to choose precisely because it reminded Severus of James Potter. "I hope you have the maturity and foresight to understand that."

Severus locked the door with a single motion of his wand and said, "_Detention. _This evening."

"What for?" Harry glared at him over his shoulder. "For being right?"

"For talking back to a teacher," Severus said, so angry that he could barely speak. "For cheating in Potions. For—"

"You can't _do_ that, you bloody bastard!"

"For language," Severus concluded, and felt a mean sort of satisfaction when Harry's face burned. "In fact, I think we'd better make it two nights, don't you? And during that time, you can think about what when you'll want to tell me."

"You can't make me do that," Harry said, and drew his wand. "Let me out. _Now_. Or I'll blast my way through your spell."

The tone in his voice cut through Severus's anger. It had gone dark and soft, the way he had heard Harry speak on the day he killed the Dark Lord. The way he spoke to enemies, not someone he was having a simple argument with.

_This is not simple. I do not know how to be a father, and he does not know how to be a son. _Severus raised his wand, but didn't remove the locking charm yet. "Harry, you must understand. I do not want to force obedience from you, but this is something you _need_. And you will have to obey me sometimes."

Harry answered by attacking the locking charm.

Severus reeled from the power behind the strike and the backlash that often came from someone trying to blast through a recently cast spell by sheer force. When he caught his breath, the door hung open, singed along the edge, and Harry was gone.

Severus stared. Anger and grief, guilt and pain, filled him with churning black waters. He had been wrong to speak as he did.

But Harry _must _learn not to simply act out when he was angry.

* * *

Draco raised his head and blinked. Someone was crawling into the nest of blankets next to him, someone who was shaking.

"Harry?" he whispered.

Frantic lips closed on his in response. Draco wrapped his arms around him and held him close, thinking. There was no way that Harry would be shaking this badly after a mere Saturday afternoon meeting with his father unless something had happened.

"What did Professor Snape say?" he asked.

"Not right now," Harry said. "I don't want to talk. I just want to lie here. And snog. Can you manage that?"

The primary difference between him and almost everyone else in Harry's life, Draco considered, was that he could set the questions aside for later and do as he was asked when Harry really _needed _him to.


	2. Like Father, Like Son

Thanks for all the reviews! It looks like this story will need to be three parts instead of two, as I wasn't able to resolve it all in one chapter.

_Chapter Two—Like Father, Like Son_

Harry could feel Snape looking at him that evening at dinner in the Great Hall. He kept his head down, making sure he never glanced at the Head Table even by accident, and picked his way steadily through his food.

"Are you all right?" Hermione put her hand on his arm and leaned towards him. Harry smiled wanly at her. His best friends had somewhat ignored him earlier in the year, since they were so involved in their own dating problems. Now they went out of their way to make sure that he didn't need help or support.

"An argument with Snape," Harry said quietly. Everyone knew that he and Snape were related now, since they'd chosen to announce it, but Harry still didn't like gossip spreading around the school. "He wanted me to talk to him about things that I'm not ready to talk about."

Hermione frowned and shot a glance at Snape. Or Harry thought so, anyway. He kept his eyes determinedly on his food and didn't turn to follow her look.

"He looks upset," Hermione whispered. "Whatever it was, it must not have gone the way he wanted."

Harry appreciated the fact that she wouldn't pry until he chose to tell her. "It was," he said bitterly. "Enough to make him assign me a detention tonight and tomorrow."

Hermione winced, but Ron, who had heard Harry's words, looked outraged. "He can't do that," he said indignantly. "He can't punish you like a teacher when he's your _dad_."

Harry had to smile, because he could remember when making an admission like that would have caused Ron to choke and splutter for half an hour. "I don't know how dads punish kids," he admitted, and took a swallow of pumpkin juice. _Plus, most of those probably don't apply to me, since they're for _little _kids and I'm going to be of age in eight months._

"Well, my dad would make us sit by ourselves in our rooms sometimes, with all the toys out of the way." Ron paused to take a gulp of his juice. "Or we had to apologize to everyone we'd hurt. That could take all _day_, with the twins." He rolled his eyes, and Harry smiled again. "Or we had to go to bed without food."

Harry hunched his shoulders and didn't respond. If Snape used that last punishment, Harry would stop speaking to him. No, he didn't know _everything _that had happened at the Dursleys' house, and Harry saw no reason to tell him, but he knew enough to realize how horrible a punishment that would be.

_Maybe that would be the reason he'd use it, then._

But a minute later, Harry shook his head irritably. He didn't need Hermione or Draco to tell him he was being unfair to Snape. Snape was sometimes still stupid, with the way he acted around Harry, but he wasn't deliberately cruel, the way he had been when he didn't know Harry was his son. So he would do something else.

But anyway, it didn't matter, since he had chosen to punish Harry like a teacher. And the detention would probably begin soon, so Harry pushed back his plate, stood, nodded to his best friends, and went stalking out of the Great Hall like a martyr.

He didn't get very far before warm arms wrapped around him and a voice murmured in his ear, "You look like you're walking to your death. Care for some company?"

Harry tilted his head back to kiss Draco and then continued on, his heart lighter than before even though he was trying to maintain his scowl. "Yes," he said. "Even if you _can't _talk Snape out of this ridiculous detention."

"Did you talk back to him?" Draco asked, matching his steps to Harry's without a pause. He hadn't asked what Harry's "offense" was earlier, and Harry found himself absurdly grateful for that. He didn't want to go into lots of details, he thought, not all the time. He had believed that he'd have to spend less and less time talking about details the further he got from his defeat of Voldemort. He'd already gone through the hard confessions with Snape and Draco—telling them he was Snape's son, that he was Voldemort's Horcrux, that Dumbledore had intended for him to die so that the Horcrux in him could be destroyed, and that he wanted them both to be a part of his life. It should be easier after that.

But it didn't get any easier, and Harry was slowly starting to figure out that that was because now he had to _be _a boyfriend and a son, instead of only talking about being.

"He wanted me to talk about the Dursleys," Harry said. "I wouldn't. And he wanted me to promise to give this spellbook back that I'd learned a lot from, including how to brew better potions."

Draco was silent. Harry looked at him and surprised a thoughtful expression on his face—not that Draco was never thoughtful, but Harry would have expected to see something simpler, less complex, there at the moment.

"Neither of those sounds like an unreasonable demand," Draco said cautiously.

"I told him that I didn't want to talk about the Dursleys right now," Harry said, his anger growing hot again as he remembered the way Snape had reacted to that. _Like I'm a child. Like I don't know what's best for me, and I'll just explode in a pile of stress one fine morning. _"He said that he thought I never would, and I should, and on he went, sounding like he knew best, like he already knew everything about me."

Draco's hand closed around Harry's wrist, fingers delicately stroking the skin above his pulse. "He doesn't," he whispered softly. "And he wants to. You know how impatient he gets when he doesn't have all the details of something yet, whether it be a battle plan or a Potions recipe."

"But he needs to let _me _make the decisions about that!" Harry came to a stop in the middle of the corridor, ignoring the fact that he might be late for the detention, and scowled at Draco. "He's been patient so far. Why is he pushing now?"

"Because he's been so patient so far." Draco stared at Harry and then rolled his eyes. "Because he's getting _im_patient. Why is that so hard to understand?"

Harry scowled at the floor in turn. It sounded so simple to everyone else, but it was hard for him, because—

Because it was hard to talk about. But he didn't think Snape or Draco or anyone else realized that, at least _how _hard it was, because he'd kept silent so far.

Harry sighed and worked his hand gently back and forth in Draco's, leaning in to lick at his lips. "Why are you the only one who understands both of us?" he whispered.

Draco's laugh was breathless, and his hand worked its way down Harry's back, heading for his arse. "I hope I understand you better than I understand Professor Snape," he breathed against Harry's lips. "It would be rather disturbing if I didn't."

The reminder of Snape made Harry pull back from Draco's lips with a sigh, though he really would have liked to stay and forget the detention. "I'll talk to you later," he said, and stroked one lock of Draco's hair into a curl.

Draco caught his hand before he could break away. "Just give him a chance, will you?" he asked.

"I'll try," Harry said, squeezed back one more time, and then broke away and began to run.

* * *

Draco watched Harry go, and shook his head, running one finger over his lips. He hoped that things would work out between Professor Snape and Harry, but they were both so stubborn it would be a miracle if they did it smoothly.

Then he remembered the advice he had given Harry, and his smile widened and became smug. Yes, it would have been a miracle if they'd had to do it on their own, without help. But Draco had given Harry his advice, and he knew that Harry usually followed his advice now unless he had an excellent reason to do otherwise.

They would get there. They wouldn't ever be the perfect father and son, Draco thought wisely, but they would be better off than they were now.

Because of _him_.

It didn't matter—almost—that no one would probably ever know that, either. Draco had enough reason to feel proud of himself without that. There had been bets in the Slytherin common room about how long he'd manage to hold Harry Potter's attention.

Draco was winning most of them, thanks to the Galleons he had secretly bet on himself, and the rumors he had spread about supposed "rows" between him and Harry.

_In fact, _he thought as he started back to Slytherin, _I should start thinking of a new one._

* * *

Severus kept his head down when Harry entered his office. He wasn't sure that he wanted to look up and see contempt and anger in his face this evening. Albus would certainly have done so, but Severus was not a Gryffindor and would carefully disclaim all Gryffindor attachments should someone ask him to do so.

Save for one boy who had been Sorted there largely because Severus had not had the raising of him.

_I must do something to ensure that he trusts me and speaks to _someone _about his childhood, if not me. _Severus looked up at last when he realized that he had given Harry no instructions and Harry would simply stand in front of his desk and wait for them for as long as necessary.

The anger and the contempt were not there. Instead, Harry was studying him closely, the way he used to do in Potions when he especially wanted to avoid detention. Severus hardened his heart against the tumult that those memories sometimes stirred and nodded to a stack of cauldrons that Slughorn's first-year class had managed to thoroughly dirty. Despite Severus's responsibility for Defense now, he still preferred to have the cleaning of the cauldrons and vials to himself. There was no telling what disasters Slughorn would create otherwise.

"Your task is to scrub those," he said.

Harry looked at the cauldrons and nodded once. Then he turned back to Severus. "What else, sir?" His voice was perfectly neutral.

Severus placed his fingertips together and wished he knew whether this was a peace offering or whether Harry was struggling hard to control his emotions so that he would not explode. "Did you wish for other work?"

"No," Harry said, and for a moment his face jerked. _There _was the hard struggle to control his emotions, Severus decided. "I just—expected you to assign me more. Never mind," he added hastily, in a more familiar tone, and turned away to the cauldrons.

Severus watched him out of the corner of one eye. He hadn't said that Harry couldn't use his wand. He wondered if that meant Harry would take advantage of the lapse. But Harry picked up a wire brush and a sponge with only a small grimace of distaste, and turned to the bucket of soapy water that Severus had standing ready.

In the past, Severus had rarely troubled to watch the students he set to doing chores, other than to make sure they were not breaking the rules. This time, he found himself glancing up time after time to watch Harry's experienced movements as he peeled and poured and scraped and scrubbed. It was hard to see his face from this angle, but whenever Severus caught a glimpse, he saw that same neutral expression.

_How often has he done this, or something like this, in search of the approval of his guardians, which would never come? _

Severus took a deep breath. He could not yet punish the Dursleys, particularly when he didn't yet know how much punishment the Dursleys deserved.

_And might not ever know._

That was the most maddening thing, Severus considered, rolling a quill back and forth between his palms as Harry stooped to wet the sponge again. Harry had admitted to enough abuse to make spells Severus had forsaken, or sworn to forsake when he stopped being a Death Eater, rise out of the depths of his mind. But there might be more. Those spells might not be enough. As long as Harry's lips remained closed, however, he could not prove it.

Harry had finished the cauldrons long before Severus was ready to face him again. There hadn't been many; Severus had stood still for a long time before he chose them, unsure whether he should give Harry many or not, and finally had erred on the side of caution. Harry dried them, stacked them, and then turned around to face him. "Was there anything else, sir?"

Severus stared at his son, and wondered what in the world he could say. They were still locked apart from each other—by the argument, by his decision to punish Harry with detentions, by Harry's distrust. He could attempt to smash those barriers again tonight, but that might get him locked out with all the more force.

He _had _to press his son, for his own good. But he would hurt him if he did.

Finally, Severus shook his head.

"Good," Harry said, and then he stepped towards Severus's desk. Severus leaned back, mouth filled with too much saliva, and clasped his hands in front of him. It seemed as though Harry was approaching him, for the reasons and in the way he had yearned for, but he had learned long since not to make too much of his hopes before they became real. Hopes died more easily than anything else Severus knew.

"Look," Harry said. "I'm sorry for being—unreasonable." It seemed as though he had to force the word out. "I didn't really mean to be."

Severus thought of many things he could say, including an accusation that Harry had been more than unreasonable, but to give in to his emotions at the moment would destroy this unexpected progress. He simply nodded instead, and maintained his silence, and watched. That tactic had often served him well when he was a spy or listening to Albus's odd, rambling, seemingly pointless points.

"But I think you know enough already." Harry cocked his head at Severus. "Why do you need to know more? It's hard for me to talk about, and it's hard for you to hear, and all it does is get you angry."

Severus at least had an answer for that. Perhaps it was not the best answer, because it would not give his son the best perception of him, but he suspected Harry would prefer harsh honesty to silken lies. Enough adults had lied to him in his lifetime.

"If I do not know how much they hurt you," he said, "I do not know how angry I should be, and how much harm I should wish upon them."

Harry blinked. For a minute, he tapped his lips with one finger, and as he often did, Severus tried to remember whether that was a gesture of his own or Lily's. The only thing he could remember that it resembled, though, was one of James's, and he cut that thought off so as not to bring resentment into the conversation.

"I reckon I understand," Harry said slowly. "But what if anger and vengeance aren't what I need from you? What if I need something else?"

"Then I will endeavor to provide it." Severus judged that he could lean forwards, a bit, and Harry would not immediately back away in wariness. "But my anger, my desire for vengeance, are natural parts of my reaction. I cannot imagine that they are foreign to you, either, from the way you killed Bellatrix."

Harry stared at him, then nodded. "Yeah," he said. "But her crimes were recent. The Dursleys haven't done anything severe to me for years. Doesn't that mean you'd go after them in cold blood?"

"The heat of my blood does not matter so much to me as the heat of theirs," Severus said, before he could consider or measure his words.

Harry blinked again. His smile wasn't so far behind. "I really appreciate that," he said. "I think there's a part of me that'll be five years old forever who _really _appreciates it." He sighed. "But I can't let you hurt them now."

"Why not?" Severus asked, unsure if he should be more angry that Harry was giving him an ultimatum or comforted that he had managed to touch a child-like part of Harry, the part that was the age Severus would have liked to make more comfortable for him.

"Because that would make it too real for me," Harry said. "I know I can't ignore it, and maybe someday soon I'll talk to you about it. But I don't want to deal with it right now. And—this sounds horrible to say, but I really did get used to what they did. I wanted them to hurt when they were mistreating me for the first time, the first time I was really hungry or the time Aunt Petunia locked me up when I turned my primary teacher's hair blue. But it would seem like overkill now. Do you understand?" He looked anxiously at Severus.

Severus took a deep, slow breath. Perhaps he did. At least Harry was acting as though Severus's opinions mattered, giving him small details that would substitute for the larger ones, or could, if he was wise enough to let them. And Harry had said that he might discuss it someday, when he was more comfortable.

It would be more comfortable for _Severus, _of course, if he spoke of it now. But if he could arrange both their lives so that they would be most comfortable for him, then Lily would never have died, and Severus would have known she was carrying his child soon after their drunken night together, and she would have divorced James and married him. None of that had happened. It was worthless to imagine it had.

"Very well," he said, and Harry's face shone with disproportionate gratitude. Severus was reminded, again, that Harry had grown up thinking adults the enemy, especially as the ones he trusted died around him. He leaned forwards. "But there are other things we have to discuss."

"How you punish me?" Harry asked.

Severus nodded. Harry hunched his shoulders and looked away with some of the same sullen expression that he had shown the other day.

"I will not take food from you," Severus said. The litany made him grind his teeth, but it was necessary, and he knew Harry would be reassured by hearing it spoken aloud. Severus had often relied on silent understandings with those important to him, especially Lily, who he sometimes irritated or drove away by speaking. But Harry needed the words. "I will not lock you up in a small dark cupboard for hours. I will not ask you to pretend that you don't have magic, or don't exist. I will not beat you."

"They didn't beat me," Harry muttered, but dipped his head in a short nod of acceptance. "I don't like you punishing me with detentions, either."

"The other professors will do that," Severus said. "I cannot ask them to stop. And if you do something in Defense class or in the corridors that affects me in my capacity as a professor, then I will do the same."

Harry eyed him over one still-raised shoulder. "I didn't say that I minded the others doing it. Just _you_ doing it."

Severus raised his eyebrows. "And what kind of punishment would you suggest when you speak to me disrespectfully in class or hex one of your classmates?"

"How about no punishment?" Harry asked.

Severus shook his head. "I must at least remove points, if you will not allow me to assign you detentions. I cannot have the other students alleging that I treat you differently than I treat them, or Minerva will try to interfere. I doubt that either of us wants that."

Harry shuddered. "No, thanks. I like her well enough, and I'm glad she supports us, but I don't want the Headmistress of the school calling me in for a chat on how to get along with my father." Severus forbade himself to smile at Harry's casual use of the word. "I—well, points would be all right, I reckon. And you could have me write lines. I don't mind that so much."

"Very well." Severus would have been horrified at himself half a year ago, letting his most hated student dictate the terms of his punishments given, but he was not that man any longer and Harry had long since ceased to be that boy. "And as a parent? I will try not to do things that frighten you or hurt you. However, I must have _some _means of keeping order in our house."

Harry shot him a baffled glance. "I just—I don't think you have to talk like that. About _keeping order_, like I'm some kind of little kid. I won't run around the place eating Potions ingredients or breaking your vials." He still sounded faintly disbelieving, as if he thought that he and Severus would never live in a house together.

"Really." Severus stared at him evenly. "And do you think your friends Weasley or Granger are never punished?"

"I can't imagine Hermione doing something that would make her parents angry enough to punish her," Harry said. "If they had to, they probably just took her books away. She'd _hate _that." He smiled faintly.

Severus ignored the temptation to return the smile. "Stop avoiding the question, Harry."

That dark scowl Severus had dreaded seeing took possession of Harry's face again. "I don't _know, _all right? I've never had normal punishments, and we don't have a normal relationship. I don't see why we can't just go along and wait until something bad enough happens to warrant a punishment. After all, maybe I'll never do anything and you'd just waste a decision if you made one now."

Severus sighed. Harry had been abused, but he had also been indulged, and that was the side of him speaking now—the boy who thought nothing of running around the school after curfew or risking his life if it would help someone or solve a mystery. "Even after you are of age," he said, "I am still your father. I think I have shown that I know how to take care of you when you are injured, to fight for you, to defend you against those who would wish subtle harm on you, and to keep you from the unfair assaults of classmates disgusted by your parentage. But I must learn the other tasks of a parent. I am asking you to help me."

Harry looked so utterly mulish that Severus knew they would get no further tonight. He held out his hands in a gesture of peace. "Think on it. And think, too, that it will be Christmas soon, and we will spend the holiday together."

Harry gave him a startled look, and then nodded. "All right," he muttered. "But I still say that I won't do anything wrong."

Severus chose to ignore this and rise to his feet for the first time during the conversation, moving forwards. Harry stood where he was and accepted the embrace Severus offered stoically, although he leaned forwards at the end with a little sigh and tightened his own arms briefly.

"Thank you for coming to me and being as reasonable as you were," Severus said. "I appreciate the concession."

"Thanks for listening," Harry said, and slipped away from Severus with an embarrassed smile. "I reckon we aren't _horrible _at being father and son, are we?"

"No, we aren't," Severus said softly, and told himself to remember that smile the next time Harry did something that irritated him.


	3. Uneasy Truce

Thank you again for all the reviews! This is the last chapter of "Volatile." There will probably be other epilogue-fics for _Practicing Liars _posted sometime in the future.

_Chapter Three—Uneasy Truce_

"Come on, Draco!" Harry yelled, and then paused to watch the cloud of breath drifting in front of his face. He looked back over his shoulder when it vanished, only to find that Draco hadn't moved an inch, but was sitting on his broom twenty feet above the ground, staring at him warily.

"It's not a good idea," Draco said. "We've been flying for an hour already. We ought to go down and go in, Harry."

Harry rolled his eyes. There were two days to Christmas holidays, they were almost done with exams, and yet Draco was scared of a bit of high flying? "We don't have to," he said. "An hour is nothing in some Quidditch practices."

"Even the team captains thought it was too cold to practice today," Draco said, with a pointed look. "I'm tired and I want my dinner."

Harry almost did give in then, if only because he was laughing at Draco's outrageous pout. But a last glance up into the dimming grey sky above them made up his mind the other way. He wanted to try just one more trick, something he hadn't had the chance to do so far. When he was in practice, he had to focus on the Snitch, and usually didn't remember his latest idea until he was on the ground and it was all over.

"Fine, then," he said. "You don't have to follow me. But watch." He kicked the broom, and it obediently soared straight up.

"Harry!"

Harry rolled his eyes. Draco sounded slightly panicked, but Harry had no idea why. He was a good flyer, not just good at Quidditch, and Draco and everyone else in the school knew it by now. What was the problem?

He swooped and zoomed to the side, rocking in long arrows of motion that gradually began to rock his broom with them. If he was right, and if he could master this maneuver in the game, when he had more distractions plaguing him, then he would utterly confuse and baffle anyone who tried to follow him.

It occurred to him that it would be even harder to follow if he was going faster than he was right now. He pushed for more speed, and the broom responded, kicking and dancing beneath him. Harry laughed giddily. It was as if he was perched on a branch in the middle of a high storm, swaying with it, watching the ground and the sky trade places and become a swirling chaos with the slender wooden twig he rode at the center of them.

Draco called something else. Harry was too high to make out the words, but he did recognize the shrill note of panic. He turned and looked back, keeping up the rocking motion of his broom.

Draco was hovering considerably lower than he had been. And beside him was a tall, black figure with that kind of upright stillness that only one person in the school had mastered, his face a pale blur as he stared up at Harry.

_Oh, shit._

Harry took a deep breath, battling both his fear and his resentment. He didn't _want _to be afraid of Snape the way he was afraid of the Dursleys. He had worked hard on making sure he wasn't, and now it seemed as though it would be undone the moment he saw Snape standing with—he checked again—yeah, he probably had his arms folded and his hands in his sleeves. It wasn't the best situation.

On the other hand, why was Snape watching him now, and angry _now_, instead of all the other times that Harry had done risky Quidditch moves? This wasn't anywhere near as dangerous as the time that he'd been hit by the enchanted Bludger and then fallen off his broom and broken all the bones in his arm.

Harry turned his broom and flew back towards the ground, in obedience to his father's presence, but with lots of emotions pressing up against his chest and his throat that he didn't think Snape was going to like to hear.

* * *

Severus stood with his face placid and his hands locked in his sleeves, because he did not want Draco to see the expression of outrage he dearly would have liked to wear, or his hands clenched into fists. Those were sights only for his son.

His son, who rode the broom as though it were about to throw him off any minute, rocking back and forth in a long series of sweeps that Severus had reason to know was much more difficult to master than players tended to think. He had seen a Housemate thrown from his broom trying to do the same thing during a Quidditch game in his sixth year. The crunch of the boy's skull meeting the ground was an auditory memory he had never ceased to hear.

Harry was dropping back to him. Harry was fine. But it had been a cold evening, and it would have been easy enough for his hands to grow numb and loosen, or grow wet with sweat and loosen…

Severus found that he could transfer the memory of hearing the boy's skull crunch to Harry's skull with no trouble at all.

By the time Harry landed and walked towards him, dragging both his broom and his feet, Severus's anger and fear had frozen into a single large block. He nodded to Harry and waited for an explanation, not wanting to speak until he was sure which words would come out of his mouth.

"Why?" Harry asked, staring up at him. "I've done deadlier things in games."

"Not at such a high altitude, and not in such cold weather." Severus checked the clouds. Yes, more snow was drifting down. At least it hadn't been snowing when Harry actually flew. Severus struggled with his feelings for a moment and decided that he was more grateful for that than disappointed that he had lost one opportunity to scold Harry.

He turned to Harry, and found him already half-scowling at the ground, his hands balled into fists of his own, ready to fight back if he couldn't strike first.

Severus paused. The expression was an eloquent reminder of the kind of raising Harry had experienced, and the kind of scolding he expected. Mindless roaring for a cause Harry considered trivial and nonexistent—though Severus doubted the Dursleys would have been concerned over the boy's safety, the difference was unlikely to be visible to Harry—and then a punishment he didn't agree with but could do nothing about.

Harry had always been independent. He'd had no choice. And he had made his assessment of risks and the worth of his life likewise.

Severus waited for a few moments more, until Harry had shot him a cautious look, seeming to wonder where the yelling was. Draco, meanwhile, had landed his broom a few feet away from them and was looking back and forth between them as though he expected an explosion that would wipe them both off the face of the earth.

"I will always care when you do things that I consider particularly deadly," Severus said. The best thing he could do was explain, he decided, and then maybe Harry would understand why Severus was not in the mood to joke about this. "I saw a student die doing the same thing in my sixth year. There was no warning and no reprieve, no reason to think that particular rocking of the broom would kill him, but that is what happened."

Harry stepped back and stared up at him. "I'm a really good flyer."

"My instincts when I see you in danger do not make that differentiation," Severus said, his voice sharpening in spite of himself. "Even if you had only been wounded instead of killed, it would not matter. _I do not want to see you hurt._"

Harry's jaw dropped open. Then he closed it, and blinked, and scratched his hand through his hair. Severus was pleased to note that the undertone of resentment, or at least preparation to resent, had vanished from his face.

"I didn't know that," he said. "Or, I did know, but I didn't _realize_. I…" His voice trailed off, and they stood there looking at each other.

_It pays off to be calm and reasonable after all. It is simply hard to do when my son is in danger. _Severus took his hands out of his sleeves and knelt in front of Harry, gripping his shoulders. Harry tensed, and Severus suspected that his guardians had used a hold like this to shake him more than once. But he didn't move away, and Severus found the words.

"To see you wounded hurts me. To see you on the verge of dying hurts me. To see you take risks worries me, because I think it could lead to your wounding or your death." He searched Harry's face. "Do you understand?"

Harry bowed his head and nodded. "You're still going to punish me for this, aren't you?" he mumbled.

"Yes, I think I must," Severus said, but he didn't move away or stop touching Harry. "You will surrender a certain book to me, that we have discussed before." He didn't want to mention the exact nature of the book in front of Draco, in case that was a secret Harry had preferred to keep.

Harry opened his mouth as though to object, then closed it and frowned. He looked at his hands, then at his broom, as if it was more intelligent than he was and would tell him how to answer. This close, Severus could see his cheeks flutter with his breath and his throat bob as he swallowed.

Then he said, "All right. Fine."

"I also want you to promise me that you will not do that particular stunt on your broom again," Severus said. He made sure to keep his words calm, precise, measured, so that it would remind Harry of what he had just explained rather than his attempt to forbid Harry to do unknown spells.

Harry gave a little shuffling step. "But I thought giving up the book was my punishment for flying like that," he said, a hint of a whine in his tone.

"This is not a punishment," Severus said. "This is an attempt to ease my worry, and to keep your safe."

"Oh." Once again, Harry looked as though someone had stunned him with a blast of new understanding. Severus ground his teeth, but silently. Every time he was reminded of just how much Harry had been taught not to value his own safety, he wanted to destroy the Dursleys in a new and unexpected way. "All right. I won't, then."

Severus stood, maintaining eye contact with his son. That had been easier than he had expected. All he had to do was hold back his anger and frustration—something he was used to doing with callow students in any case—and then explain what he meant and why he was doing what he was doing.

He might not have had the raising of Harry from a baby, but that did not mean that he needed to forsake the hope of a powerful connection between them.

"Good," he said, and smiled, the half-smile that Harry seemed to feel most comfortable when he used. A full smile would have Harry ducking and checking him nervously for hours, as well as casting a spell he thought Severus didn't notice that was used to detect Cheering Charms. "I am glad you are well."

"So am I," Harry said, and smiled cautiously back.

With Draco at Harry's side, they went back into the school. Although it was still cold, Severus felt contentment wrapping him like a warm blanket.

* * *

Draco could hardly believe it, but the experiment that was Harry and Professor Snape's living together was actually _working_.

Then he reminded himself that he shouldn't be so surprised, since he had been the one who thought it would when Harry and the professor were dubious. Perhaps he should say that he was surprised it was working well.

He had left Hogwarts for a few days to be with his mother, and then had brought her back to the school, and Professor Snape's warded rooms, on Christmas Eve so that they could be with Harry and Professor Snape for the exchange of gifts. He had half-expected to find the professor's rooms covered with burned marks, or at least his potions cupboards empty of ingredients, because he knew Professor Snape had wanted to teach Harry the basics of brewing.

Instead, he found rooms that were still mostly intact, except for a mysterious melted patch on the couch in the drawing room that Harry covered with a pillow as Draco, trailed by his mother, marched in, and that none of them referred to again. Draco did try to sneak a look at it later, but someone always came—most inconveniently—into the room just when he thought he'd manage.

His mother had almost fully recovered from the torture, including the multiple Cruciatus Curses, that she'd suffered when she was prisoner in the Manor, and she could sit up and hold a cup of tea without her hands shaking, and hold long conversations without suddenly staring into the distance and losing the thread of the discussion. Draco was enormously proud of her, and kept glancing at Professor Snape until he noticed and nodded. He could see the difference, and he was proud of it, too.

But appearances could be deceiving, so Draco waited until his mum and the professor were deep in discussion of some people they'd known during the first war with the Dark Lord and then dragged Harry into the corridor. Harry laughed and leaned forwards, snogging him. Draco surfaced from that gasping and pleasantly dazed.

"Yes, I missed you, too," Harry muttered, leaning his head on Draco's chest. "And I don't think you needed to bring me all the way out here. I'm fairly sure our parents know that we kiss."

Draco smiled at the casual way Harry had said "parents," but decided not to draw attention to it, just in case Harry felt the need to be contrary. He locked his hands in front of his chest when Harry tried to kiss him again. "It's not that," he said. "I wanted to know how things are really going with you and your father."

Harry made a face and leaned against him once more, heavily enough to drive Draco into the wall. Draco didn't exactly mind. "It's not—I mean, we're not getting along horribly or anything. But sometimes whole hours pass where we hardly say anything to each other."

"That's normal," Draco whispered soothingly, running a hand through Harry's hair. He knew Harry worried about not doing things "normally" because he hadn't grown up with his parents and had no idea what it should be like. "My father and I would do that sometimes."

Harry stroked his hair in return. "You don't have to talk about your father if you don't want to."

"No, I think I'm done being silent," Draco said, surprising himself. "I mean, it was horrible that the Dark Lord made his head show up and speak to me, yes. But if I never talk about it, then it's as though that's my only memory of him that exists. I want other people to remember him differently, and I want to do the same thing. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded. "Of course. So you and your father would be in the same room and not talk to each other?"

"Yes," Draco said, eyes shut as he thought about it, remembering the evenings when Lucius would sit on one side of the fireplace and he on the other, both with books, and with no sound other than the turning of the pages. "Why not? We were enjoying each other's company, and we didn't need to make excuses for that."

"I never thought about Lucius Malfoy being a man who would just enjoy his son's company," Harry said, stroking the back of Draco's neck. "Tell me more?"

Draco knew Harry was partially indulging him, asking about a subject he might not have much interest in just so Draco could talk. But so what? All that meant was that he had a sensitive and thoughtful boyfriend, and other people didn't.

"I remember the time that he decided to brew a potion from a description he'd read in a book, without a precise recipe," Draco began. "I knew something was wrong when I started smelling burned hair from behind the door of his potions lab…"

He made Harry laugh with that story, and smile with the next, and so the hours slid past.

* * *

Harry licked his lips nervously and studied the presents arranged on the sleek oak table in the middle of Snape's drawing room. (Snape had conceded further to a Christmas celebration than Harry had thought he would, but refused to have a tree). He'd got a few things each for Narcissa, Draco, and Snape, and half of them were neutral gifts of the kind that you might get anyone. He hoped that was all right.

For that matter, he hoped his more exotic and personal presents were all right. He was really no good at this.

"Good morning, Harry."

Snape was suddenly behind him, just like that, with a quiet, deep greeting and a touch on his shoulder. Harry kept himself from starting with an effort and nodded to his father. "Good morning, sir."

Snape nodded back and sat down in one of the chairs spread around the table, making a complicated gesture at the fire. A tray appeared, borne by one of the kitchen elves, containing enough eggs, bread, porridge, toast, marmalade, milk, juice, kippers, and small sandwiches to feed an army of Death Eaters. Harry blinked at the tray as the elf vanished, wondering how all the food balanced on there, and then looked at Snape. "Surely we're not going to eat all that, sir?" He was accustomed to having breakfast late on Christmas day, and in the Great Hall.

"You are not about to skip meals," Snape said, in a severe tone. He picked up a plate he had somehow found buried under all the clutter and began pushing toast and eggs onto it with a large serving spoon.

Harry had to sit down and stare at the fire for a while. By the time he glanced up, Narcissa and Draco were already awake. Draco took the chair next to Harry's, giving him a sloppy kiss as he did so, and his mother took the chair next to his.

Narcissa and Snape insisted that they eat their breakfast before they opened the gifts. Draco pretended to agree, but rolled his eyes at Harry when he thought no one was looking.

"Don't do that to your eyes, Draco." Narcissa's voice was very calm, and she never looked up from her plate of more kippers than Harry would have thought one person could possibly stomach. "They need _proper _exercise."

Harry and Draco ate their breakfasts in chastened silence after that, and then reached for the gifts. Harry watched Snape's face and Draco's hands, and opened his gifts carefully, practically unwinding the paper, rather than in the frantic haste he usually would have used when he was with the Weasleys. He had to learn how to do everything over, how to fit in with people who had a lot of rules.

(Well, not _everything_. He'd already had Christmas with Ron and Hermione, receiving and giving books where Hermione was concerned and getting spare bristles for his broom from Ron. Harry had given Ron a practice Quaffle with a mind of its own, enchanted to go in a dozen different directions during a game. Ron had hugged him until his bones creaked and immediately started making plans about how he could use it against Slytherin. It was nice to know that some of his relationships really hadn't undergone a drastic change).

From Snape, he unwrapped a glittering vial of Felix Felicis, and then a book that he quickly recognized as a Potions journal. When he flipped through it, he found the Potions recipes from the Half-Blood Prince's book copied, without the dangerous spells.

He looked at Snape with a quick, jerking motion of his head, only to see Snape turn his eyes away in some determination. Harry wasn't sure if that was because Snape wanted to give him privacy for his reaction or needed privacy for his own, but he could give Snape what he needed to hear.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Snape looked back at him and nodded, face hiding whatever he felt at the moment. "I thought you could use the luck," he murmured, "with as much bad luck as you have."

Harry had to pretend to be absorbed in the book to hide the ferocious, demented grin that spread across his face.

From Draco, a ring with the Malfoy crest and a book of spells to keep him safe on his broom. Harry rolled his eyes over the book and slipped the ring on the third finger of his right hand. He could see from Draco's little darting glances that he was trying to figure out what that meant, if anything, and that was exactly why he'd put the ring there.

He did manage to sneak Draco one heated glance, letting him know that he'd thank him in detail for his gift later, and in private.

Narcissa's gifts were more practical—dragonhide boots, a long cloak treated with spells that would resist fire and falling stone—and made Harry both more comfortable and less sure about whether he should have given her the gift he did. He nodded to her after he opened each one, and she returned calm, placid expression, face like a still lake.

Harry watched out of the corner of his eye as people opened his less personal presents. He'd got clean vials for Snape, a silver necklace for Narcissa, and Quidditch gloves for Draco. Then Draco picked up the long, slim present Harry had wrapped in green and silver paper and shook it as though the sound would tell him something.

Harry held his breath, and hoped Draco couldn't hear the sloshing—or at least wouldn't figure out what it was if he did hear it.

Draco tore open the paper this time, ignoring his mother's disapproving frown. Then he took a deep breath and stared down at the vial in his lap, filled with a sparkling blue-purple liquid that tended to change color when it caught the light.

"Harry," he whispered, and tilted the vial back and forth. The light shone off what looked like crystals in the depths.

"How did you—" Snape began, and then fell silent, pursing his lips. Harry knew he was going to ask how Harry had brewed the potion or made off with it from Snape's private stores without notifying him, and had only then remembered that he could have bought it instead.

Harry indulged in his own eye-roll at his father and looked at Draco. "It's a memory enhancer," he said. "So you can relive the memories that you especially want to. It'll be like a Pensieve, but no one else can see it. There should be enough there for at least six doses," he added.

Draco was looking at him with half-lowered eyes, with an expression that Harry knew well. He smiled back, reassured. He had been _almost _sure that Draco would like the gift after what he'd said about Lucius last night, but it still could have gone wrong. He had a lot of unpleasant memories too, after all.

"Thank you," Draco whispered.

Harry smiled more broadly. "You're welcome."

After that, Narcissa took up the second small box that Harry had labeled as being for her and undid the paper, and even Harry's clumsy knots in the ribbon, with expert fingers, never taking her eyes from him. Harry tried to look calm and unconcerned, though he knew it was useless when Draco leaned over to him and whispered, "You're sweating."

Harry bit his lip and ended up looking down after all when Narcissa took the gift out of its box. He just wasn't _used _to this. Yeah, he gave gifts to Ron and Hermione and worried about what he got them, too, but his relationship with them was much more comfortable, much more equal. He hadn't thought five months ago that he'd ever have to worry about whether his boyfriend's mother liked her gift.

"It is exquisite."

That was a _little _reassuring. Harry sneaked a glance and found Narcissa turning the bracelet over and over in her hand. It was silver, like the necklace, since Draco had mentioned once that his mother liked silver. And it was in the shape of a broken chain.

"A most appropriate gift," Narcissa said, with a long glance at Harry and a small bow of her head before she slipped it over her wrist. Harry breathed out, surprised to find he was shaking.

"You're welcome," he said, and then turned to Snape.

Snape also unwrapped his square package without taking his eyes from Harry. That was a skill Harry would give a great deal to learn, he thought. He sat bolt upright now, and couldn't even move to take Draco's hand when he reached out.

"It is a journal," Snape murmured, turning over the slim black book inside the package. He sounded half-curious and half—Harry didn't know what. Then he opened the cover and glimpsed what Harry had written inside it.

His gaze at once came back to Harry's face. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He knew as well, from that one glimpse, what was written there as Harry did.

"Happy Christmas," Harry said, hands shaking as he leaned over to hug Snape's arm. He had written down a description of Dudley bullying him. That was all. It was only a beginning, and smaller than Snape had asked for, and Draco and Narcissa didn't have to know about it if Snape and Harry didn't want to tell them.

This next gift was more public, and therefore harder.

"Happy Christmas," Harry repeated, "Father."

Snape did nothing more than reach down and cover Harry's hand with his.

His other hand never stopped cradling the journal against his chest as if he thought it would vanish if he dropped it.

And his eyes _burned_.

When Harry felt Draco's touch on his free hand, he had to close his own eyes.

* * *

It would be senseless to say one moment made up for all the years of pain and agony that preceded it—to which had been added the recent grief of Albus's death, and the pain of knowing that he had not only never recognized, but had mistreated, and left open to the mistreatment of others, his son.

It did _not _make up for all that, hearing the word "Father" from Harry's lips. It did not render the other challenges that were to come toothless.

But it steadied and balanced and clarified, for Severus, it made an oasis in the desert, and he knew he would remember his son's hand on his arm and his nervous, careful words long after the other memories had begun to crisp and fade.

**The End.**


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